Dead Air
by WeAreAllBornToDie
Summary: John Watson never thought he'd have to live a life without Sherlock in it. Sherlock is in love with his army doctor. Asher Holmes, niece extraordinaire and schemer of all schemes, will see them married if it's the last thing she ever does. But Mycroft will insist on being difficult, and Sebastian Moran is on the move. Post-Reichenbach. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**Story-wide disclaimer: Don't own, never have, never will. This is purely a work of fiction.**

_The Holmes family is by no means normal, Asher least of all. But if her uncle is in love with this army doctor, by god, she'll see them married yet. If only Mycroft would stop getting in the way. And then, of course, there's the problem of Sebastian Moran, lurking in the shadows..._

This is, I warn all of you, much more depressing than the summary would let on. And yes, yes, I know there's an OC, she was originally just a plot device used to bring about Johnlock, but she quickly took on a life of her own. She is what she is, not a Mary-Sue or a self-insert or whatever else, she's just Asher. Read on and you'll see.

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><p><strong>Dead Air<strong>

**1.**

The gravestone is simple, simpler than she would have thought. Just a plain black stone with the words 'Sherlock Holmes' on the front.

"You'd think he could have spent a bit more effort making sure his grave was as pompous as his face." she mutters, crossing a pair of thin arms over an equally thin chest and grinning to herself. Her mobile buzzes from her pocket, and she fetches it and flips it open.

"I heard you were dead." she says, supremely uninterested, "So I came back to say goodbye. How is the afterlife treating you?"

Something that may have been a chuckle echoes down the line.

"And I hear that you have been, 'kicked out' as you would put it, from yet another university." a deep, cultured voice returns, matter of fact.

"That was a year ago- practically ancient history. And really, I'm glad of it uncle. The people were very dull, most of them, anyways, and they had an abundance of... rules." Asher shudders.

"Did you hack into the Deacon's computer files again, or simply blow something up?" the deep voice queries.

"Blew something up. An entire dorm wing, to be exact."

Silence from the other end.

"Oh, no one was in the building, don't be stupid."

There is an amused grunt from her relative.

"And don't pretend you're upset with me. Secretly you're thrilled I take after you and not that arse, Mycroft."

A sigh.

"Well at least we both have the same opinion of your uncle." he says, faintly amused. "Listen, Asher, there is something I need you to do for me. The reason I asked you here, in fact." The smile slides off her face, leaving a blank expression.

"What is it?"

"Go to the flat. There's a man there, a John Watson. You won't have met him, but he's a… friend, of sorts. Tell him you're my niece, ask him if you can stay."

"Will he let me?"

"Oh, yes. There isn't a kinder man on earth."

Asher is quiet for a moment. The sun beats down on her back and warms it despite the chill air, glinting off the polished black stone in front of her.

"You love him." She says simply.

"Look after him, Asher." The other voice replies, pointedly ignoring her statement. "Keep him from doing anything he'll regret."

Asher tilts her dark head, even though her uncle can't see it.

"He must be very special."

"He's quite ordinary, I assure you." The words are dismissive, but there is an undercurrent of something powerful beneath them that Asher picks up on instantly.

"I'll do what I can. Stay in touch, Sherly. Ta, then."

She hangs up the phone. John Watson. She ponders the name as she gets to her feet, then she turns and leaves the graveyard behind.

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><p><strong>And so it begins...<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

HyperActiveSkittles, I am so glad that you were able to put aside your normal preferences and read this, and I can only hope that you will continue to do so. Your feedback means a lot to me; I hold you closer to my heart than a bag of chocolate.

Well, here we are, underway with the second chapter. It's very short, and the third one will be only a small bit longer, but after that the chapters will be lengthy, I promise you. Till then, enjoy these small sections (short but bitterly sarcastic, eh). Thanks, all!

* * *

><p><strong>Dead Air<strong>

**2.**

221B Baker's Street. It's a modest place, next to a little bakery. Green door, chipped paint, multiple scrape marks around the latch; as familiar to her as her uncle's angular face. Asher knocks at the door and rocks back on her heels, humming to herself. A few moments later the door swings open, and an elderly lady is standing there in her dressing gown. She's in her mid-seventies, favors her left hip, and her face is wrinkled and kindly. Asher feels warm in the pit of her stomach, and resists the urge to throw her arms around the fragile woman.

"Hullo, you dear old thing!" she chirps, shoving her hands into her pockets. The elderly woman's eyes go very wide, then she lets out a whoop of joy that is much younger than she looks, and pulls Asher into a suffocating hug.

"Elizabeth, you wonderful creature, whatever are you doing here?" she queries, eyes suspiciously wet.

Asher disentangles herself from Mrs. Hudson's clutches, and smiles a brilliant smile.

"Ah, that!" she says, even more brilliantly, "I'm here to see a man named John Watson."

...

"John? John, dear, there's someone here to see you." John looks up from his newspaper when Mrs. Hudson calls from the bottom of the stairs.

"Send them up, then, Mrs. Hudson." He replies, grabbing his cane and easing up from the armchair. For a moment, he allows himself to remember what it had been like to walk, normal and free, but with those memories come memories of a face; a face that he doesn't dare to dwell on, not even for a moment, for fear the grief that has settled into his bones will resurface and drown him.

"I said send them up, Mrs. Hudson-"

"She has sent me up, John." A voice, a drawling, female voice cuts him off, and a figure steps through the door.

And John can't breathe, can't think, can't even speak. Because the girl that has just entered the room is abnormally tall and thin, and her hair is black and curling round her shoulders, and her cheekbones are sharp and delicate and her eyes are blue, bright bright blue and they are so familiar, so familiar that John feels the familiarity like a punch straight to his gut.

"Who." He manages to choke out, clearing his throat and gripping his cane, "Who the hell are you?"

The girl smiles, a smile that is gentle despite the thin, sharp angles of her face, and John feels another kick to his stomach, because he remembers that smile.

"Hullo, John. I'm Asher. You probably know my uncles, Sherlock and Mycroft, though I doubt they'll have ever mentioned me. It's a pleasure to meet you."

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><p><strong>Thank you once again for reading. <strong>


	3. Chapter 3

To my beautiful sirens, There-Are-Things-I-Can't-Say, PersiaAmelia, and HyperActiveSkittles, how can I ever thank you enough?

More angst in this chapter, but then, I warned you it would come.

* * *

><p><strong>Dead Air<strong>

**3.**

Asher moves past the man that is John Watson and plunks herself down on the sofa. After a few moments of standing stiffly in silence, John hesitantly moves away from the door and seats himself in an old armchair opposite her. For a moment, Asher studies him intently, this man that her favorite uncle loves. Much smaller than she had been expecting, almost tiny, with a tanned, friendly face and blue eyes that are steady and calm and yes, yes, she can see it. She can see it. If her uncle loves this man, this man loves her uncle even more.

"Has anyone ever told you you've got a psychosomatic limp?" she says, out of the blue, and instantly regrets it to some extent, because John's face goes positively sickly under his tan, and his fists clench and unclench on his lap.

"Yeah, I- yes. Yes, I've been informed." He replies tersely.

"By Sherly, most likely." Asher says knowingly, and she doesn't miss the spasm of pain that contorts John's features when she mentions her uncle's name.

"Right, yeah, so you're- you're Sherlock's niece, then?" John says wonderingly, "He's never said anything at all about you."

"He doesn't like to talk about his family much, in case you hadn't noticed." Asher points out drily as she gets to her feet and begins to wander about the flat. "So you two are… what, exactly?" she continues slyly as she inspects the skull on the mantle.

"Harry, you're looking grim." She contemplates, stroking it.

"Harry?"

"That's his name." Asher says blandly, "And you never answered my question."

John blinks. "Oh. Right. We're… colleagues of a sort, I suppose. Friends."

Her back turned to him, Asher rolls her eyes. "More like a couple." She mutters.

"Sorry, what?"

Asher turns around and smiles at John. "I said, living with Sherlock must be a lot of… trouble."

John smiles back, the first genuine smile she's gotten from him; it lights up his face and makes him look ten years younger.

"Oh, completely. It really was. He was an arrogant sod, always left his experiments lying about in unsanitary places. I found an entire head in the refrigerator once. A head. He played the violin at hellish hours of the night and wandered about in nothing but a bed sheet and his eyes were so bloody gorgeous sometimes I-"

John cuts himself off, eyes wide, seemingly horrified.

You wondered why none of those things, those insufferable, annoying things, could make you think less of him. You wondered why despite everything you could never imagine leaving him.

"You were close." Asher states quietly.

"Yes." John says, resigned.

"Do I remind you of him?" she asks suddenly.

John swallows thickly.

"So much it kind of hurts to look at you." he admits.

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><p><strong>The man the skull belongs to was NOT actually named Harry, by the way. I suspect Sherlock knows his real name, and Asher just made something loony up on the spot. She does that quite often, actually...<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

Somedays I wish I was Stephen Moffat. Others I just really want to strangle him.

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><p><strong>Dead Air<strong>

**4.**

It's been two weeks now, and Asher is still at 221B Baker St. with John. She hasn't shown any signs at all of moving out, either. John has hinted (rather unsubtly, discretion has never been a strong point of his), that perhaps she should find herself a place to stay, but his dropped hints have had no effect whatsoever, and after a day or two John drops the matter altogether. Asher is Sherlock's niece, he doesn't doubt that. And really, he couldn't kick her out even if he wanted to. Having her about is almost like having a piece of Sherlock. That's more than John ever thought to have again. So, for better or worse, Asher seems to be here to stay.

And really, when John stops to think about it, having the girl around is… nice. She is so much like Sherlock, really, lounging about and stealing his phone to text who knows what sorts of degenerate people and asking him to go get milk and flying out of the flat every Friday to vanish in a whirlwind of long limbs - that don't always manage to escape being awkward, not like Sherlock's had - to go god knows where and leave John pacing about worrying because he's grown almost fond of her.

He thinks about his best friend quite frequently now, though he doesn't want to. Sometimes he comes downstairs in the morning to find Asher sprawled on the sofa (which she has claimed as her bed) in a tangle of spider thin arms and legs and for a moment Asher vanishes, and a tall man with a scornful, noble face is sleeping there instead.

Things are. Well. Getting worse. It's been three months now since… since the Fall, and things have only been getting worse. He knows this. Asher knows it to, and sometimes he sees a glint in her eyes as she sits impossibly still and watches him with silver eyes that are so very like another pair of eyes that saw everything without seeming to.

Mycroft sends him a check once a month, a substantial amount, and texts him every Tuesday and Thursday and sometimes on Sundays too if he isn't busy doing government things. John knows that this is Mycroft's way of apologizing, and he accepts the money grudgingly, but he never once responds to any of the calls. Molly Hooper stops by every once in a while, forcing herself to be cheery and bright, but she never stays long. John is glad of it, doesn't know quite how to deal with her fake happiness and guilty, sorrowful eyes. Lestrade comes by sometimes too, and this John doesn't mind so much, because Lestrade loves Sherlock too, in his way. Mrs. Hudson is John's one saving grace, she understands how bloody difficult it is to pretend as though everything is all right and perfect and fine when really, nothing is fine, and nothing ever will be fine again.

Then there is Asher. She has become a welcome, familiar presence about the flat, always sort of… there underfoot, sprawled on the sofa texting, raiding the cupboards and stealing his bread and jam. He argues with her when she leaves the flat in the mess, when she pickpockets his phone, and it feels so familiar and so, so good.

At the same time, it hurts more than he ever could have imagined.

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><p><strong>Proceed with caution from here onwards.<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

I'd like to thank my new reviewers (my darlings, come and let me hug you). Kookookarli, Miyako Toudaiji, Egyptian1995, Rebecca Cumberbatch, Digi-smile, and last but not at all least, CowMow. You are all, every one of you, exceptionordinarily special.

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><p><strong>Dead Air<strong>

**5.**

Fridays, Asher visits her uncle's grave. There is a warped sentimentality to it, she supposes, though sentiment is something that comes to her rarely or not at all.

"So." she says conversationally, perched on the gravestone in a manner that would have been disrespectful, had there actually been a body lying underneath.

"If you have questions, Asher, I would advise you to ask them." the voice on her mobile responds knowingly.

"You sound tense, darling uncle, when's the last time you've had a smoke?" she counters, shifting off the stone to sit cross-legged on the damp grass.

"I've been attempting to quit." Sherlock rumbles in exasperation. "And you've been avoiding my original question."

"You read me all to well." she sighs in return.

"I read everyone all to well, darling niece. That is, after all, my job."

Asher grins and flops backwards onto the grass.

"John is… he's good." she stumbles over her words, "I can see why you- he's special." She hesitates.

"And?" Sherlock asks, something akin to anxiety showing for an instant in his cool voice. Asher sighs.

"Come home, Sherlock."

"Impossible." he says, instant and far too harsh, "I am in the last vestiges of pulling down the web of criminal activity James Moriarty worked for years to wrap around the world. I cannot simply return home. Not yet. Not until Moran has been taken into custody, it wouldn't be safe for John."

"He's dying inside, little by little." Asher wishes she could look her uncle in the eyes.

"He will survive." Sherlock says, quiet and pained. "John is strong."

"John is destroyed, Sherlock." Asher snaps, and she can almost feel her uncle's surprise through the phone, "You've destroyed him. The moment you made the decision to jump off that roof and not let him know that you were alive, you signed his death warrant."

"This is to protect him, Asher." Sherlock audibly grits his teeth. "Soon. I'll tell him soon."

"I wish I believed you." Asher says, suddenly weary. "Just... soon. Okay? Things are only going to get worse."

Sherlock's voice mirrors her exhaustion.

"I know, Asher. I know."

**...**

One Sunday morning, almost a month after Asher first arrived at the chipped green door of 221B Baker St, Mycroft finally contacts his niece.

**Elizabeth, really, you've been in town for a month and you still couldn't be bothered to visit your favorite uncle?**

**-MH**

_I'm sorry, who is this?_

_- A_

**Elizabeth. Really.**

**- MH**

_No, sorry, I think you must have gotten the wrong number, there is no one here by that name._

_- A_

**You are incorrigible.**

**- MH**

_Look, I haven't the faintest who you are, so please stop texting me._

_- A_

**You do take after him. Very well. Why haven't you been to visit, Asher.**

**- MH**

_Mycroft! Uncle! It's wonderful to hear from you, how've you been!_

_- A_

**You'll see soon enough. I'm sending a car, it will be there in a matter of minutes. Consider this my invitation to have tea with your dear old uncle this afternoon.**

**- MH**

_And if I refuse?_

_- A_

**You won't.**

**- MH**

_Oh, all right. But you're buying me something._

**_- A_**

**Naturally.**

**- MH**

**...**

The sleek black car pulls up the circular driveway to Mycroft's estate half an hour later.

"You could have at least let me tell John where I am." Asher grumbles as she slides out of the car and stretches her long, thin legs.

"Simply send him a text message, my dear." Mycroft replies blandly from his position on the stairs leading to the front door. Asher sighs a long suffering sigh, and pulls out her phone.

_John. I'm not dead, so don't throw a fit (I know you will, don't pretend otherwise). I've simply been kidnapped by my annoying uncle (Mycroft is the annoying one). Don't wait up. We're out of milk._

_- A_

"There." She said, sliding her phone back into her pocket.

"Come inside, Eliza- Asher." Mycroft hastily amends the end of his sentence when Asher shoots him a glare of pure ice.

"Very well, Uncle." Asher sneers, sweeping grandly past him into the spacious house. She makes her way to the enormous dining room. She vaguely recalls sprawling out underneath the dining table with Sherlock, railing against Mycroft for being a pompous arse and dissecting any servant - "Look Sherly, Joanna's got pregnant with the butler again, Mummy's going to fire her this time for sure." - that was unlucky enough to wander past. Sherlock has never treated her like a child, not even when she was one. Mycroft, on the other hand…

Asher simply shakes her head as she seats herself at the already laid out table and buries her head in her scrawny arms. Footsteps echo across the floor a few moments later, and the chair next to her is pulled out.

"Hullo, Gabrielle." She mutters without lifting her head, receiving a noncommittal noise in return. "Or are you going by something else now?"

"It's Susan this month, actually." Mycroft's personal assistant replies.

"What are you doing back in London?" Asher says idly, resting her cheek in a thin, pale hand, "Didn't Mycroft send you off to America on some glorified reconnaissance mission?"

"Oh, I finished that up ages ago, I'm back filing paperwork for him now, he always says he's too busy to do it on his own." Susan replies cheerfully.

"Yes, well, that's Mycroft." Asher replies, her tone an odd mixture of bitter and fond.

"I've blackmailed him into paying me overtime, however." Susan adds blithely, and Asher (who has turned manipulating-Mycroft-for-money into an art over the years) gives her an approving grin.

"And I hear you've been staying with one John Watson?" Susan inquires, genuinely curious.

"You know John?" Asher says in puzzlement.

"Oh, we've met. He knows me as Anthea; I had him abducted for your uncle once, one of those ridiculous snooping older sibling things he is so prone to do."

"Did he attempt to chat you up?" Asher asks, eyes dancing madly. Susan looks surprised.

"Well, yes, actually. How did you know?"

"Woman's intuition." Asher responds, waving her hand carelessly.

"Now!" Asher and Susan both turn to see Mycroft clapping his hands together in glee as he enters the room. "Let us begin, shall we?"

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><p><strong>Gracias, my little minions, for reading.<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

And suddenly, ANGST ANGST EVERYWHERE ANGST.

Beautiful readers and reviewers! Willow Battlegale, Tardis-Holmes, egyptian1995, Miyako Toudaiji, CowMow, and There-Are-Things-I-Can't-Say, cows for all of you. Cows for everyone.

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><p><strong>Dead Air<strong>

**6.**

Asher is Sherlock's niece. There has never been a doubt about that. She shares more idiosyncrasies with him than with any other member of her immediate family. That includes Louise- her mother. Sherlock's older sister, Mycroft's younger, she'd died when Asher was three, disappeared one evening out of the blue. Sherlock had found her two days later floating face first in the river.

She'd committed suicide. Loui- her mother, had been a genius too, a trait which seems to run in the family, but the utter boredom that had come from living in a world of mundane things and mundane people had driven her insane.

Sometimes, Asher curls up alone on her bed at night in the dark and wills herself to stop shaking (it doesn't work), because she is so desperately afraid that she will end up just like Loui- like her mother, that Sherlock will end up like his sister; too brilliant to handle being alone inside their own heads. Asher has seen firsthand how difficult it is to be a genius in a world where it is so easy to be bored.

When Asher had been fifteen, still going to a hopelessly pathetic boarding school in the states, she'd gotten a call from Mycroft late one evening that had started a tremor in her hands that even now, four years later, she still sometimes thinks she can feel.

Sherlock has overdosed. Cocaine addiction. Found in his apartment. Critical condition. Intensive care. Mycroft had flown her back to London immediately, and she'd spent the next two weeks curled up in a hospital chair in agony, not sure what to do, or how to handle herself, because she'd never had to deal with a situation where she'd had to care before.

So Asher is Sherlock's niece primarily, even more so because she's nearly lost him. Seeing him now, now that John has come into his life, and comparing him to the Sherlock he had been before… the difference is shatteringly apparent. John is changing Sherlock. Making him human. The chances of Asher finding her uncle sprawled out on the floor without a pulse have been drastically lowered. And for that, because of that, Asher will be grateful to John until the day she dies.

**...**

"John? John, have you gotten the milk?" the chipper voice echoes down the stairs as John trudges up them with his arms full of groceries.

"Yes, yes." He grumbles, shouldering his way through the door and into the kitchen. He can tell without looking that Asher is perched on the top of the couch with her bony knees drawn up to her chest. She's stolen his laptop again from the sound of it (dammit, Asher), and is chewing on her thumbnail and staring at the screen intently. John sighs, shoves the last of the groceries in the fridge and turns to face her fully. The blood instantly drains from his face, and he staggers backwards and covers his face with his hands.

"Asher!" he howls, "Why the hell aren't you wearing any trousers?"

She looks up at him, confused, then understanding dawns on her face.

"Whoops." She says blandly, hopping off the couch and meandering off into the other room. John shakes his head in disbelief and sinks down into an armchair in exhaustion.

"Sherlock, she is so like you." He says half laughing, half sobbing as he drops his head into his hands.

**...**

Asher groans and rubs her eyes, looking up from her laptop to the clock on the coffee table. It's nearly eleven at night. She pulls up an email, transfers the information she has hacked into a coded file, and sends it to Sherlock.

"When on earth did I put trousers on?" she says aloud, getting up off the sofa and stretching. Suddenly she remembers John coming home and yelling that wandering around that house in a shirt and underpants was not at all appropriate.

"Ah."

Asher looks around, and, seeing no signs of John, pads upstairs to his bedroom on silent, bare feet.

"John?" she calls, tapping on the door, "You in there?" no answer. Asher frowns. The door is open slightly, and Asher pushes it open. The room is empty; no John. Asher glances around the meticulously neat room, and shuts the door.

"Where-" she breaks off suddenly as she realizes. "Oh." She hurries back down the stairs ands approaches what had been Sherlock's bedroom. She knocks once, and pushes open the door without waiting for an answer. She stops dead. John is sprawled out on Sherlock's bed in an uncomfortable tangle of limbs (he's obviously fallen asleep by accident), chest rising and falling slowly, his phone lying right next to his outstretched hand.

Asher creeps over to the bed and stares down at him. She picks up the phone idly, goes to the call history by instinct and glances at the numbers John has- oh. Oh. Jesus. Asher re-dials, and waits as it rings out.

There is a beep, and then-

_"Sherlock Holmes. If this is Mycroft calling to bother me, kindly take your concern elsewhere. Everyone else may leave a message at the beep. Oh, and John, we're out of milk."_

Sherlock's number. The history is filled with Sherlock's number. John has been listening to his voicemail over and over, Asher realizes with a kind of dim horror. She goes to John's message box and clicks over to 'sent'. She reads the texts at random, her chest tight and constricted, her heart pounding for no reason she can deduce.

We're out of milk. I'll be going to get some, then, so not really much different from usual, except that you aren't here to ask me to do it.

- JW

Sherlock, could you please tell your arse of a brother to leave me be?

- JW

Your niece obviously takes more after you than Mycroft. Actually, you and she are so alike sometimes it's uncanny.

- JW

Not that it's a bad thing, her being like you. It's almost like you're here with me again.

- JW

Except that it isn't, dammit Sherlock…

- JW

I can't find my computer, could you bloody well stop nicking it?

- JW

Sherlock. Please. God knows I haven't asked for much, but I'm asking for this. I wish-

- JW

Asher sets the mobile back down by John's hand gently, and sits on the bed next to him. She reaches a hand towards him, hesitates, and retracts it

"How do you care so much?" she whispers, face blank.

John doesn't answer. Asher doesn't expect him to.

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><p><strong>Do you know, Asher used to be a lot worse. Once upon a time she didn't care about anything. It wasn't like Sherlock was a shining example of human empathy after which to model herself. But then she met a certain two kids at a boarding school in the states, and- well, that'd be a story for another time.<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

Blessings upon the souls (or lack of souls, everyone's welcome here) of all my readers.

Time to thank my lovelies. That-One-Yellow-Smiley, TruffleHead, digi-smile, Miyako Toudaiji, and egyptian1995. May your treasure chambers overflow with wealth.

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><p><strong>Dead Air<strong>

**7.**

Nowadays, when John comes home, he can never be quite sure what he's going to find. He doesn't know what Asher does when he isn't home during the day, but she always seems to make it back in time to have something strange waiting for him. Once, he had walked in the door only to find her painting scenes from the Iliad and the Odyssey on the walls.

"This was the very first book I ever read as a child." she'd informed him happily as he stood there, shell shocked. The next day he'd called in sick, and they'd spent all afternoon repainting the walls (which needed repainting anyways, if John is being honest with himself). Asher hadn't seemed to mind her artwork being ruined, and the very next day John had come home from work to find Asher sitting in the middle of the kitchen table with her thin legs crossed, surrounded by candles.

"What sort of satanic ritual is this?" he'd asked, half amused.

"No sort of ritual at all." Asher had replied. "I'm merely looking into something." and after a few more moments she had leapt off the table and dashed away to type furiously on her phone.

Things are certainly more exciting around the flat now than John has been used too. Sometimes he can even convince himself that he might one day forget, that he can be oblivious to the fact that it's been almost four months now since the world stopped turning.

So when John comes home from the grocery story one saturday morning to find Asher sitting on the sofa next to a golden ball of fluff, he simply shakes his head and sits down in the armchair opposite.

"Why is there an animal on the sofa?" he says blandly.

"It isn't an 'animal', it's a puppy." Asher replies absently, nose shoved into a book as usual. John compresses his lips into a thin line.

"I understand that it's a puppy. What is it doing in the flat?"

"He's yours." Asher answers, looking up and smiling brightly. "Mycroft bought him for us."

"Since when does Mycroft buy puppies for people?" John wonders, and Asher's smile turns wicked. John hurries to cut her off before she can say whatever she is about to say.

"Never mind, don't answer that. The point is, we can't keep it."

"Him." Asher corrects, picking up the puppy and cuddling it close, "And of course we can keep him. He'll be good for you."

John opens his mouth to protest, but Asher has crossed the room and dumped the small bundle in his lap.

"Asher! Asher, no- I'm- we're not keeping-" but Asher has left the room. John looks down at the small warm creature in his lap, pink tongue lolling out, large brown eyes drooping in exhaustion. The puppy cuddles closer to John, and closes its eyes in contentment. Something in John's heart defrosts slowly, and he places a hand hesitantly on the animal's head.

"Gladstone." he says when Asher comes strolling back into the flat a few hours later.

"Hm?" Asher says distractedly, heading for the kitchen.

"The puppy. His name is Gladstone."

Asher blinks for a second or two, then a smirk tugs up one corner of her narrow mouth.

"I knew he'd be good for you." she says smugly, coming over to remove the sleeping dog from John's lap.

**...**

_Mycroft bought your boyfriend a puppy today. -A_

Does this mean I shall be having a dirty animal to look forward to once I return? -SH

_Does this mean you're going to be returning soon? -A_

Asher. -SH

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><p><strong>I'd imagine that living with Asher is very difficult. She's like that one roommate we all hate.<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

Yet another chapter. Characterization marches on even when we cannot.

* * *

><p><strong>Dead Air<strong>

**8.**

Mycroft firmly believes that there is nothing in the world half so soothing for the nerves as a cup of tea. His younger brother, sitting across from him tapping his foot impatiently against the floor, is apparently not of the same opinion. Sherlock's face looks even thinner now, somehow, cheekbones jutting sharply out of his skin, eyes burning and intense in his pale face.

"You knew Elizabeth was in town." Mycroft says, breaking the silence, lifting his teacup to his lips. Sherlock nods his head brusquely.

"She got in touch." the younger replies, a hint of a smirk turning up the corner of his narrow mouth. Mycroft narrows his eyes at his brother, then shakes his head.

"Then you are aware, I presume, that our dearest niece was expelled from St. Joseph's over a year ago for, what was it... ah, exploding an entire wing of dorms."

Sherlock is actually smiling now, a smile that makes Mycroft feel tired and worn thin, because this is the pre-John smile; a shadowy, farce of a thing, dark and bitter.

"That does rather sound like Asher." he mutters.

"Somehow she discovered that you'd apparently committed suicide, and being skeptical (rightly so, might I add), she instantly contacted you."

"Correct." Sherlock monotones, inspecting his nails. "She asked if there was anything I required of her. I asked her to come look after John, if it would not be too much trouble, and if it would be too much trouble, to come look after him despite."

"And she said yes, naturally." Mycroft sighs. "She always has been devoted to you, brother dear."

Sherlock's lips tighten almost imperceptibly, which in his language means "I wish you would refrain from calling me 'dear', as I believe it to be neither the truth, nor a welcome sentiment."

"You should know better, Mycroft. Asher is devoted to no one."

"You may well be the exception." Mycroft says slyly, peering at Sherlock over the rim of his teacup.

"How is John?" Sherlock says, abruptly changing the subject.

"Why don't you simply ask Asher." Mycroft says, waving a dismissive hand. "She spend a far greater amount of time with him than I do, after all."

For a moment, Sherlock doesn't respond. "Asher is... biased where John is concerned, I believe." he says at last, his fingers toying nervously with his shirt hem. "She believes that I should return to John. She has become... attached to him."

"She is a strange creature." Mycroft muses, "To become so fond of your army doctor in such a short time. The Asher of years past would not be capable of doing so."

"She has changed." Sherlock offers, grey eyes contemplating.

"It would seem she has that in common with you." Mycroft responds pointedly, setting his teacup in the saucer with a clink. "And besides all that, I would agree with her."

Sherlock glances up sharply, and for the first time he seems actually involved in the conversation.

"What the hell do you mean, Mycroft?" he says harshly, silver eyes pinning the other man to his seat.

"I agree with our niece. You should return to John. Preferably before it is too late."

"Too late." Sherlock says, not a question, the skin on his face pinched and tight.

"Moran is on the move, Sherlock. Your actions have not gone undetected. I will put it this way, brother." Mycroft says, and he is serious now, deadly and serious. "If you do not want John's safety compromised, bring down Sebastian Moran. Bring him down soon."

Sherlock's face has drained of any color. It is as shaken as Mycroft has ever seen him.

"Merely a bit of advice, Sherlock." Mycroft pushes his saucer away and saunters from the room.

* * *

><p><strong>The plot thickens.<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

It seems to me we haven't gotten much insight into Asher's head yet. This should remedy that. She nowhere near as happy as she lets on, don't let her fool you otherwise.

* * *

><p><strong>Dead Air<strong>

**9.**

Monday morning, Asher wakes up in a particularly foul mood. She wonders, briefly, why this happens to be the case, because quintessential emotions such as bitterness and anger are things she has striven to remove herself from. Then she rolls over and sees the calendar on the wall, and therefore the date.

"Oh." she grumps, rolling back over and curling her skinny limbs into a ball. "Obvious."

Today is the anniversary of the day her idiotic mother had drowned herself.

_A warm hand stroking her hair. A voice, warm and sweet. A lullaby, just for her. A young Sherlock with big eyes and arms and legs he has yet to grow into. A house, small, but big enough in her eyes. Wood floors, sun shining through the windows and catching on a prism. Rainbows splashed across the walls._

She takes a deep breath, and pulls the covers over her head. The memories will come anyway, they always do. No point fighting. Asher presses the heel of her palm against her burning eyes. She doesn't cry. She doesn't remember how.

When Asher finally drags herself off the couch, John has already called out a goodbye and left for work. She slumps back on the couch after getting herself a glass of water and stares at the big hand ticking around the clock, time drifting by her in heartbeats and sudden pauses. She passes into a trance, retreating into her mind, and perfect silence falls over the flat.

She is woken when John comes bustling through the door, the sky outside the window tar black, her neck and legs stiff from sitting in the same position too long. She shifts around and shivers - suddenly cold - and for the first time in a long while she feels thin. Too thin.

"Asher, have you been sitting on that couch all afternoon?" John asks from the kitchen.

"I superglued my trousers to the sofa." she replies calmly.

There is a moment of stunned silence, then John pops his head around the corner.

"Really?"

"No."

John scowls at her for a moment, and she meets his gaze. She can see her own face reflected in his too-blue eyes, a sharp face with a mop of black curls that need cutting and silver eyes that have no happiness in them.

"You all right, Asher?" John asks suddenly, and Asher remembers that even though John may seem ordinary most of the time, he isn't really; not at all.

"I'm not. But that's the case most of the time, so no need for worry." she says, and she smiles wryly up at him. "_You_ know."

John's mouth tightens, and he takes a shaky breath. He stands there uncomfortably for a moment, then sits down beside her on the sofa.

"I do." he says softly, so softly that Asher hardly can hear him.

"We're a pair, yeah?" Asher sighs.

"Did you actually just tell me you superglued your pants to the sofa?" John asks in reply. There is a momentary pause. They both burst out laughing. Asher thinks in wonder that the laughter sounds genuine. She can't remember ever having heard John laugh like this. She can't remember the last time _she's_ laughed like this. It's a nice sound, she supposes.

* * *

><p><strong>They're bonding, how nice. And our first real glimpse at Asher's mother, and her relationship with her (hint: not a good one).<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

To Khashana, BelieveInMagic77, and especially the lovely and intelligent BoatsAndBirds (you wrote me a novel length review for every chapter, let's get married), all my love. Here's chapter 10. This is probably the most you'll get of a look into Asher's past. Johnlock to come.

* * *

><p><strong>Dead Air<strong>

**10.**

Thursday, John comes trudging into the flat in a state of suspended and seemingly never ending exhaustion. Taking care of a puppy, as well as a nineteen year old who might as well be a child for all she acts her age, is unbelievably tiring. Living with Sherlock had been much the same way, of course, but he had never minded so much then. Perhaps it was the way that his old flatmate's mouth would quirk up at the corners when John said something dry and witty, or the manic energy that possessed him when he was working on a case that stopped John from resenting the lack of sleep. It could also have been-

No. It would not do, to think like that, it wouldn't.

"Asher?" he calls wearily, dropping his coat on the coach and shuffling into the kitchen to find himself supper. Asher had volunteered to cook, once. Once was all it had taken for John to explicitly forbid her from ever doing so again. He moves past the kitchen table, heading for the loaf of bread he hopes is still in the cupboard, when out of the corner of his eyes he spots something lying on the table's wooden surface. A photograph. He retraces his steps and picks it up in curiosity. It doesn't belong to him, and he's certainly never seen any of the three teenagers in- no. No, hang on, the girl in the middle is Asher.

John can feel his eyes widen in shock; he almost hadn't recognized her. She was obviously much younger here, maybe fifteen or sixteen, all long thin awkward limbs and huge gray eyes in a small pointed face. But she's smiling, and maybe that's what throws John off, because he has never seen her smile like that before. Not once yet. They've shared some laughs, and she's certainly not as moody and composed as Sherlock had been, but to see her smile like this, eyes alive and cheeks flushed, John feels as though it would be a precious thing. There are two other people in the picture that John doesn't know, one on either side of Asher, her arms looped around both of them.

One is a girl with a wild brown mane of ringlets and hazel eyes and a hint of mischief in her smile. The other is a tall boy with chestnut hair and eyes like a stormy sea. John realizes that Asher must have a had a different life before she came into his, and thinks wonderingly that he has never heard her mention anything about it; not her friends, not the life she'd had before, not even why she was here with him. God knows he'd tried to get her to answer the last one, but Asher was a master at slithering out of things, a true slitherer-outer connoisseur, and if she wanted to avoid a subject she damn well avoided it thoroughly.

"John?" Asher's voice startles him from his reverie, and he hears the front door bang shut. "I wasn't expecting you home this early-" she enters the kitchen, sees the picture in his hand, and freezes in place.

"Asher-"

"Where did you get that." she interrupts, her panicked eyes betraying the calm of her voice.

"It was just lying on the table. I'm sorry to have looked at it, if it was personal,"

She visibly relaxes.

"No harm done, John, it's all right." she says with false cheer, taking the photograph out of his hand. She turns and makes to leave the kitchen, but John summons his courage and asks her a question that causes her to stop in her tracks again.

"Who are they, the people in the picture? If, if you don't mind me asking," he hurries to continue, hating to intrude on Asher's private life, but insatiably curious. Her shoulders slump a little, and he hears her sigh.

"They're friends of mine, from the states." she mumbles, "The boy's name is Will, and the girl is Scarlet."

She turns to him now, and her eyes are twinkling wickedly in a way that he's seen before and that never bodes well.

"We're all terribly close, just like you and Sherly, except not as gay. Well. Maybe a little gay. How does one measure one's gayness, I wonder? Do you think there's some sort of scale-"

John interrupts with a growl of annoyance.

"Asher, how many times am I going to have to tell you that your uncle and I's relationship was nothing more than platonic?"

"As many as it takes for me to believe you." she says frankly, prowling out of the room.

"In that case, I'll be telling you until the day I die." John calls after her, and sinks down on a chair in resignation. If he can't convince her, how can he ever hope to convince himself?

_Maybe you never will_. A small, brutally honest voice whispers in the back of his head.

**...**

"Asher, Asher, god, please. There is nothing you can do." Will is crying, and Asher stands, a wind up toy without a key to wind it up. Deep down inside her, beneath the layers of shock, she can feel some fiery, burning pit of emotion rising up inside her like a diver to the surface of a lake, like an impending hurricane. She's never felt anger like this before, she's never felt this wildly out of control. It terrifies her. She doesn't know what she's capable of.

The diver reaches the surface.

"I'm really, terribly angry now, Will, and I'm probably going to go and do something stupid and utterly illegal about it. Will you help?" she says, as gently as though she's talking about having tea with breakfast. Startled by the sudden change in her mood, he's quiet for a moment.

"Are you going to kill him?"

"I'm going to try."

"Then, yeah, Ash. I'll help."

**...**

Asher wakes drenched in sweat. Her heart is pounding, but she feels oddly calm. She doesn't know what time it is, but the moon is high and bright in the sky; casting gentle silver beams over the furniture and weird shadows on the walls. She lies there a moment, then gets up off the couch and rummages around quietly in the desk for a sheet of paper and pen.

_Will,_

She begins, her narrow, spidery handwriting spelling out the familiar name. She stops. The pen freezes over the paper. She can't think of what to say next.

_Sorry I haven't gotten in touch, sorry I left, sorry I ran away. Sorry sorry sorry sorry._

_I miss you. Do you hate me? You must._

Her fingers tremble slightly, though her face is blank. She crumbles the paper in her hands, tosses it into the wastebasket, and lies back on the couch, staring at the shadows playing across the ceiling.

Across from 221B, a gunshot splits the night in two, and a woman crashes to the ground in her apartment with a gaping hole between her eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>I promise this is all very important, and will become apparent later on. Also, seven respect points to anyone who can spot the Howl's Moving Castle reference (book version, not Studio Ghibli version). There's also a Princess Bride reference, but that one's a bit subtler.<strong>


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter eleven. A mysterious stranger makes a startlingly perverted appearance. Asher reminisces about the 1800's. John defends his heterosexuality.

* * *

><p><strong>Dead Air<strong>

**11.**

"John."

"Hm."

"John."

"Hm."

"John."

"What."

"John."

"What?"

"John John John John John John John John-"

"What, Asher?"

"I'm bored."

John groans, rubs his temples roughly, and glares at Asher, perched on the couch surrounded by a pile of books.

"What do you expect me to do about it?"

"Entertain me."

"No."

"John John John John John-"

"All right, Asher, FINE!"

She smiles, her eyes lighting up in her pale face.

"How am I supposed to entertain you?" John grouses.

"Did you know that this was used as evidence against Oscar Wilde to arrest him for homosexuality?" she replies, ignoring his question and waving a hard-backed copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray around wildly. "Aren't you glad you and Sherlock don't live in the 1800's?"

John grits his teeth and retreats to a happy place in his mind.

"Asher, your uncle and I would have nothing to fear from the 1800's, because we are not gay."

"Yes, and neither was Oscar Wilde." she mutters.

"What?"

"Your cardigan is inside out."

"Oh."

"Honestly John, are you a child?"

John scowls.

"I was a bit distracted this morning, thank you."

A knock sounds at the door, and John looks up, startled.

"I'll get it," Asher sings, springing up from the sofa. The blanket falls from her lap, and John's eyes widen in horror. She isn't wearing any trousers.

"Asher, wait-"

"Hello?" she welcomes, swinging the door open. It's the tall man who'd just moved in downstairs, his rough blond hair pulled into a pony-tail at the nape of his neck, a good natured smile on his face.

"Um, afternoon." he says, somewhat awkwardly, "I was-" he breaks off and stares, open mouthed, at the thin girl wearing nothing but pants and a tank top standing in the door way. His mouth hinges open and shut uselessly.

"What-" he chokes, but is cut off again as Asher swings her elbow (a dangerously sharp weapon) into the man's face. With a surprised yelp, he stumbles back, blood dripping from his nose, and Asher's eyes grow comically huge.

"Oh goodness I'm so sorry did I hit you I didn't mean too I'm so clumsy sometimes you wouldn't believe it good of you to come over goodbye." she ejaculates as she manhandles the six foot something (not that Asher is much shorter, really) out the door and slams it. She turns to John with a thoughtful expression.

"John?"

"Uhmhh." John manages, too stunned for literacy.

"It seems we are dealing with a pervert."

"You are the one who answered the door in your pants." John manages again, recovered enough by now to be sarcastic.

Asher considers this for a moment.

"John?"

"Mmhm."

"Pass me my trousers." she commands, snapping her fingers imperiously. He rolls his eyes, but obeys. Asher pulls them on, then returns to the door and calls through it; "If I let you in, will you behave?"

A moment of silence, then:

"Yes." the man calls meekly through the door. Asher opens the door with grandeur, fishes a tissue out of her pocket, and hands it to the man to wipe the blood off his face.

"I'm sorry to have seen you in your unmentionables." he offers.

"I'm sorry for hitting you in the face."

"No, you aren't."

"Yes, well, pot. Meet kettle."

John looks on in confusion as the two grin madly at each-other.

"My name's Mathias, I'm your next door neighbor." the man explains. "I thought I'd come up and introduce myself."

"Nice to meet you." John says weakly.

"Is this your father?" Mathias inquires of Asher. She nods brightly.

"One of them, yes."

John feels the sudden urge to bang his head up against something. Repeatedly.

"That's John." she continues, "I'm Asher. Nice to meet you."

"You as well." he replies warmly. "I'll be going then, just wanted to stop by and get acquainted."

"Goodbye." Asher calls cheerfully, waving enthusiastically until the door shuts behind him. The smile falls from her face.

"I wouldn't hang around that man too much, John." she says, and though her voice is soft there is a hard quality to it.

"Why not?"

"I don't trust him."

"I thought you liked him."

"I do like him. But I don't trust him."

John shakes his head for the twentieth time in the past two hours.

"I don't understand you."

"You and the rest of the world, mate." Asher responds, eyes dark despite her smile.

* * *

><p><strong> Thanks again to my new muse, the superb BoatsAndBirds, and ten respect points, as promised, to the wonderful Khashana, who correctly located the Howl's Moving Castle reference. The plot thickens even more. At this point it's pretty much plot gravy.<strong>


End file.
